


This is it, Sherlock

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock Is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John's moved out, and Sherlock has no idea why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Bad day = hurt fic. So here you go. There will be a follow up chapter. But not tonight.
> 
> "Better to have published and regretted than never to have written at all." - Me, shamelessly plagerising Alfred Lord Tennyson.

“This. This is why, Sherlock.” John’s arm waved about, indicating their surroundings – a dark alleyway, wet with the earlier rain and smelling slightly of the skips lining one side. Sherlock, one hand pressed to the side of his rapidly swelling face, looked at John with equal parts irritation and confusion.

“This alleyway?” He asked, and John made a noise of frustration.

“No, Sherlock, not literally this alleyway.” He paced away, then back before speaking again. His voice was weary, resigned.

“I’ll stay with Greg for a few days. Don’t call me.” He marched off, his military bearing markedly more noticeable, as it always was when he was angry. Sherlock watched, slightly bemused, the pulse of pain in the side of his face marking the steady beating of his heart. John would be back. He always was.

+++

Three days later, Sherlock was climbing the walls, both figuratively and literally. Determining how long a man might take to get down from being duct taped to the wall sounded easy enough, but it had taken him a surprising length of time to work his way free. Still, the distraction had lasted only a few hours, and the relentless tempo of _where’s-John-where’s-John-where’s-John_ continued to pound through his head, scattering his concentration. Not that there was anything to work on, he grumbled to himself. Lestrade had been conspicuously silent since before John had left, and Sherlock suspected he was trying to keep out of it by avoiding Sherlock at all. Tiresome. _Boring_ really.

Pacing restlessly, Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his phone. He’d called John, of course, after coming back to Baker Street, and regularly after that, to no avail. Sherlock had never been to Lestrade’s flat, though finding it would not be difficult, but something in the way John had spoken had warned Sherlock to stay away. Not that he’d ever really listened to John, hence the phone calls (which he never did for anybody else), but still, perhaps John did need some space. Sherlock didn’t know why it had to be space away from him. Surely he could stay here, make the tea, buy the milk and ignore Sherlock? That would make him feel better surely, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to put up with Mrs. Hudson’s disapproving stares and tut-tutting noises every time she came up with Sherlock’s tea. She moved his things too, calling it ‘dusting’, but really, all his things ended up wrong. John understood, he would never do ‘dusting’. Sherlock sighed. There was an uncomfortable space in his stomach, too, as though something was missing. He probably just needed to eat, he thought, dismissing the mental reminders of the last time he felt like this. Last time, when nothing helped, nothing except the oblivion that came when he…

+++

The slamming of the front door made Sherlock jump, and he sat up from where he’d been lying petulantly on the sofa. John. He was angry, no, determined, no, angry _and_ determined, he thought, the steps on the stairs purposeful but harder than necessary. Sherlock arranged himself on the sofa, gaze nervously at the door before settling on the chair opposite as John came…no, hang on, not through the door. He had bypassed the sitting room and taken the second flight of stairs straight up to his room. Slightly disconcerted by this unexpected action, Sherlock hesitated. Should he follow John? He wouldn’t know if Sherlock was even home, but John clearly didn’t want to speak to him. What was he doing, then?

Making a decision, Sherlock leaped from his chair, taking the second flight in leaps, partly in impatience, partly to prevent his nerves from getting the better of him. The door was open, and Sherlock stopped, the sight of John packing stacks of shirts and trousers into a suitcase leaving him at a loss for words.

“John?” He whispered. None of this made sense.

John didn’t look at Sherlock as he packed the few belongings still here after his hasty packing earlier in the week. “I’m going to stay with Greg for a while, Sherlock. I don’t know how long, I thought it best to clear out all my things. You can find another flatmate or not, but I can’t stay living here.”

“And what about us?” Sherlock asked quietly.  Their tentative relationship was still new, but Sherlock knew enough to know that John moving out meant the end of this as well.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I can’t do it any longer.” The sound of the zipper was loud as John finished packing and closed the suitcase. He turned to face Sherlock, meeting his eyes for the first time since they he had arrived.

“Greg will call you with cases again, but I’m not going to come. Sarah’s getting me some locum work for the time being.” He shook his head again, and said, “I just can’t do it any longer.”

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, the cold dark bird of loneliness settling in the space in his stomach, familiar and terrible.

“Us.” John said baldly. The single syllable bounced between them, cold and final, and the bird fluttered his wings in Sherlock’s stomach. He pressed his hand to the spot, hoping to still the birds’ motions.

“I don’t understand.” Sherlock said. His own voice sounded lost and small compared to the firm tone of John’s voice.

John sighed. “It’s complicated, Sherlock.” He rubbed one hand nervously against the side of his trousers, clenching the fist over and over. “Not now. I can’t…not now, Sherlock. I have to think about some stuff.” He pointed one finger at Sherlock, who started at the almost aggressive motion. “Don’t call me, Sherlock. Don’t text and don’t ask Greg about me. I need some space, and you need to give it to me.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling his eyes skitter across the room and away from John. He couldn’t look at him now, the image almost painful, like looking at the sun and being burned at its wonder, knowing you can’t ever get close. He had no idea why John was acting so strangely, but the result was what mattered – John was leaving, and he couldn’t stop it. Numbly, he watched John’s mouth open again and say something before picking up his suitcase and walking past Sherlock, taking care not to brush against any part of Sherlock as he passed. Sherlock’s brain noted the sound of John walking down the steps, then the landing, more steps, the hall. The front door opened and closed carefully, and then – then John was gone and Sherlock was alone. The bird spread its wings wide, the feathers spreading through his veins, burning every part of his body with its cold despair.

+++

It took Mycroft fifteen minutes to arrive at Baker Street after John texted him to say he’d moved out.

 

It took the ambulance another eight minutes to get to Baker Street, a further sixteen to St Bart’s, and almost an hour before he was stable enough for Mycroft to see him.

 

Nobody told John. After all, thought Mycroft somewhat spitefully, John had chosen to sever his connection with Sherlock. Why would he care?

+++

Sherlock woke slowly, disappointed not to smell the interior of Baker Street. Hospital. Private room, based on the absence of sound, so not Intensive Care. He shifted his arms slightly, noting the slight tug. Restraints, which meant either Bart’s or Princess Grace. Bart’s was better, though further away, so probably there. He did a mental run through of his body. The usual aches and pains. Nothing to be concerned about. Not there, anyway.

“Brother.” He said, his voice croaky. “That aftershave is atrocious, you really should find something less noxious.” He heard Mycroft sigh.

“John texted me.”

“Obviously.”

“I haven’t notified him.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, eyes still closed. “Familial solidarity, brother?” He could almost feel Mycroft rolling his eyes. Such a drama queen.

“Hardly. Based on his message, I assume you two have some things to resolve. This is hardly the situation in which to do so.”

“How long until they release me?” Sherlock asked.

“You’ve been out for twelve hours. Another day should be sufficient, I believe.”

Sherlock rolled his own eyes under closed lids, though it lacked any conviction. What was he going home to anyway? “I’m going to sleep, then.”

He heard Mycroft stand, felt the restraints loosen before his brother left without speaking.

+++

Sherlock neither spoke nor looked back when the car dropped him at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had been waiting, door open, but he swept past without a word, ignoring her anguished cry of “Sherlock!”. Entering their flat – _his_ flat – Sherlock climbed into his chair, squashing himself as small as possible. Closing his eyes, he entered his mind palace, hoping that visiting John’s wing would make the great bird take flight and leave. The rooms were dusty with disuse, even after such a short time; the light through the windows was weak and dim, heavy rain obscuring the sun. There was nothing comforting or uplifting about these rooms now. Making a noise of frustration, Sherlock opened his eyes, abandoning the mind palace for the time being.

“Mycroft!” He shouted, knowing his brother would have taken the opportunity to install cameras and microphones in his absence. “You’d better get me something to do RIGHT NOW!” Stomping into his bedroom, he scowled. It had clearly been searched, but Sherlock’s layers of hiding places were extensive. He unscrewed the heavy foot of the wardrobe, supporting it’s weight as he removed the plastic bag within. He returned the foot before waving the baggie around to wherever the cameras were. No point even looking, the search would not fix the fire in his brain or the flexing of the bird’s wings in his stomach.

Sitting on the sofa, he shook out the contents of the bag, lining up pills in rows of increasing length.

“You’ve got fifteen minutes, brother, before we get to play again!” He shouted, drumming his fingers on the table and tapping his wrist dramatically.

Taking a deep breath, he paced, running through the periodic table in order, then backwards, then in alphabetical order as his internal clock ticked down towards zero. At thirteen minutes and four seconds, his phone pinged.

 

_Cold cases emailed. Hard copies en route. MH_

 

Finally. Something to occupy his mind. Sherlock opened his laptop and started, not noticing when unnamed security men delivered several boxes of cold case files and photographs an hour later. There was just him, and the work, and the bird, which was cowed enough by his frenzied focus to remain still and quiet. And for the moment, that would be enough. Only just, but enough. For the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock talk. Mycroft mediates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I have no idea where this is going. I just started writing it again, and this is what happened.
> 
> I anticipate another chapter at some point, but don't ask me about what happens, because I don't know. This is the first fic I've published without a 'don't worry, it's all sunshine and unicorns at the end' disclaimer, but I'm posting it anyway because I'm really satisfied with it, writing and character wise. 
> 
> Anyhoo, this is what happens next...

Sherlock thought he was probably sleeping, though it was hard to tell at the moment. Someone had removed the pills he’d laid out earlier (how much earlier, he had no idea), but the amount of time that had past was not relevant. His sleep was consumed with thoughts of John, a mirror to his waking moments, bleeding the two together. Distinguishing between the two was difficult, except that in his dreams, Mycroft never came to visit. That would mark it as a nightmare, and Sherlock’s mind contained far better monsters than his brother.

+++

Mycroft sat in the chair-formerly-known-as-John’s-chair, primly crossing his legs and resting his umbrella against the leg. Sherlock was tired and unfed enough to admit both to himself, and he blamed the combination of the two for his sluggish brain. John stood in the doorway like an apparition. Sherlock had had no warning; his mind, dulled by exhaustion and starvation, had not registered his familiar tread up the stairs, or the scent of his aftershave.

“Hello, Sherlock.” he said quietly, standing awkwardly in the door. He hesitated for a second before pulling up one of the chairs they had always used for clients.

The awkward threesome looked at each other. Sherlock didn’t bother asking why they were there. He knew that his brother would outwait the fall of the mountains before breaking the silence, but John could be relied up to-

“Sherlock, we’re here to talk to you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes internally at this insipid beginning. He restrained the impulse to say, ‘Obviously.’ or otherwise berate John for his lack of originality. Instead, he waited, eyes on John, deliberately unseeing the details that presented themselves to him. He simply couldn’t allow the bird any space to extend its wings again, and each detail ate away a little at his insides, enlarging the cavern within.

“When I spoke to you in the alleyway,” John said carefully, “I wasn’t speaking about us standing in an alleyway.” He attempted a chuckle that failed miserably. “That happened plenty before we got together.” He rubbed his hands nervously, leaning forward on his knees. “Sherlock, do you remember why we were in the alley on that particular night?”

Sherlock blinked. He’d deleted the whole evening, hadn’t he? Looking back through his memories, he realised it was the drugs that had deleted things for him, however they had been inefficient, leaving snippets here and there. He frowned. “Something about a girl and a large man…”

John sighed and nodded. “We were standing in a pub, Sherlock. A perfectly nice pub, having a drink with Greg and Molly, and you just couldn’t stop yourself. The girl spilled her drink on Greg, and she apologised but he was still a bit upset. You just opened your mouth and started deducing her. She got angry, of course, and the large man was the bouncer that came to ask us to leave.”

“I suppose I deduced him too and he hit me?” Sherlock asked, remembering his own hand to his swelling face in that stinking alleyway. Time had passed enough that his face had healed, now, though he found his hand against his face again in a mirror of that evening.

“No, Sherlock.” John looked desperately uncomfortable, and Sherlock saw Mycroft shift his weight almost imperceptibly, gaining John’s attention so he could throw him a bleak but encouraging smile. _You can do this_ , it said.

John went on, “Before he got over to us, I said we should go, and you refused. You started shouting at me, deducing me, right there in front of the whole bar.” John’s face was flaming, and he addressed his hands, but his wavering voice continued nonetheless. “Nobody hit you, Sherlock, you turned fast so your coat would be all dramatic that you tripped over a stool and face planted into a table. The bouncer escorted us both out and we’re banned for a year or so.”

There was silence as Sherlock digested this story. He remembered very little of what John was saying, yet it had the ring of truth. Simply the fact that it was John telling the tale made it plausible; Sherlock had never known him to lie about something of consequence, especially to Sherlock.

“So what did you mean, then, in the alleyway?” Sherlock asked. “What is it that you can no longer live with?”

John sighed. “I don’t want you to be a different person, Sherlock.” He said.

“People only say that when they want the other person to change.” Sherlock replied.

“I want you to be you.” John persevered, ignoring the inflammatory comment. “But I want the calmer you. I’m sick of being thrown out into back alleys because you insist on telling people the personal things you can deduce about them. I don’t want you to stop deducing people, or to stop doing it in embarrassing ways to Anderson and Donovan – God knows they deserve it – but somewhere, somehow, you need to learn some self-control.”

John was still addressing his hands when he admitted, “You frighten me when you do that, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in shock.

“You embarrass me, and you hurt me. Time and again, and I don’t want to be in a relationship where that’s a thing that happens. You are allowed to get frustrated and angry, and you’re even allowed to shout at me – we’ll always have arguments – but the personal stuff,” John shook his head. “Some of those things come from private conversations, Sherlock, and some of them, they’re just things I don’t really want the world to know. And if we’re going to even be friends, you have to understand that, and you have to care about me enough to try. Because if you don’t, if I mean that little, then why are we friends at all?”

“That’s why I had to have some space, to figure this out. And so these are my conditions. Call them an ultimatum, if you like, it’s a nice dramatic word, but if you want me to come back here, to Baker Street, things have to change. When we’re here, alone, you’re a different person. You’ll argue all day with me, but you’re considerate, and thoughtful and you obviously value me. That’s the person I fell for, that’s the person I want to be around all the time. So you need to figure out how to get that Sherlock to come along to the pub, or on a case.”

John stopped talking, realising his voice was getting a little shaky, and he was repeating himself a little. Sherlock hated when he repeated himself, and he repressed little smile at the thought that even with this conversation, he was aware of how Sherlock was feeling.

For his part, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa staring at the ground beneath his bare feet. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him, waiting for his reaction to John’s words.

“I need to go to my mind palace. Good day, Mycroft.” Sherlock closed his eyes and mentally retreated, more to get away from his brother and John than from any real need to visit his mind palace. He sat for a long time, he supposed, based on the pain and stiffness in his back when he finally stirred. After an exhaustive analysis of the times they had been thrown out of a building into an alley, Sherlock had to admit that there was a consistency to the preceding events. He always deduced someone, often a woman who was flirting with either Lestrade or John; he and John had a disagreement about it; they ended up in an alleyway. He had frowned when he realised this pattern. Why had he not seen it before? Patterns were his forte, it should have become apparent. A small voice, that sounded suspiciously like Mycroft, asked him dryly how often he turned his deductive powers on himself. The answer of course, being never. Doing so now was uncomfortable to say the least. It did, however add invaluable new insight. Based on the general standard of privacy held by people vis-a-vie medical information, extra-marital affairs and petty crime, his deductions could certainly have been considered invasive. John had asked once why he had blurted them out rather than keeping them to himself as others did when they realised something potentially embarrassing about a friend. Sherlock was confused at the very concept of considering another’s feelings, and he’d sneered at John, he remembered.

He still did not see the value in it for another person, however John was generally more tolerable than other people, and his ongoing presence was preferable. Sherlock supposed he could whisper to himself, or create a temporary space in his mind palace for the information he gathered on other people, to be emptied regularly. This would most likely lead to him and John not having the argument in the first place, though it would be better to have that sorted too. Sherlock did not have a clear understanding of the difference between a private conversation with John and any other conversation – surely anything he said to Sherlock was information he would be happy to share with anyone? Again, Mycroft’s voice asked, ‘and you, brother? Have you shared confidences with John that you would prefer were not public knowledge?’ Sherlock had to admit that this was true. John had been admitted to the areas of Sherlock’s mind palace that even Mycroft had not trodden. Perhaps, then, the same held true? If so, he should retain information, seeking John’s permission before releasing it to a third party. This seemed simple enough, though Sherlock figured there would be some finer points to tweak as he practiced the idea.

Tentatively, Sherlock opened his eyes. As he had suspected, John was present, sitting in his reclaimed chair, reading a book. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen.

“I assume my brother has been gone for” he sniffed deeply, “between sixty and ninety minutes.”

John nodded.

Sherlock sat up, stretching his back before addressing John. “I have analysed the instances in which we have been asked to leave a pub, and you have identified the pattern before I have.” Sherlock said. He cleared his throat uncomfortably before adding, “It seems my behaviour has precipitated these events. I have determined several strategies to prevent this in the future, John.” His heart was beating fast, he realised, and John was looking at him with no expression on his face. Nervously, Sherlock kept speaking. “I’m not sure I understand why sharing information about you is inappropriate, but I will refrain from bringing up anything in front of other people without your permission in the future.” Having run out of things to say, Sherlock stopped speaking, rubbing his hands together as he waited for John to speak.

“I appreciate that you’ve tried here, Sherlock.” John said, his face still impassive. “I don’t know yet how I feel about all this. I want to believe you but I’m going to have to see it happening before I can…” he waved his hand around between them. Sherlock nodded, though he didn’t understand. His face was obviously easier to read, as John said, “You don’t understand, do you?” When Sherlock shook his head, John blew out a breath, before saying, “On a scale of one to ten, how miserable were you when I moved out?”

Sherlock blinked.

“Mycroft didn’t tell you?” He’d assumed that was why John was here, especially with his brother.

John frowned. “No. I asked him to come in case we couldn’t come to an agreement and I left. I didn’t want you to…relapse.”

Sherlock snorted at this. “One being having a party to celebrate your absence, and ten being taking enough drugs to fell an elephant.” Sherlock said, and John nodded.

“Eleven.” Sherlock replied flatly. John looked confused, so he elaborated. “I spent a couple of nights in Bart’s. Mycroft came over immediately after you texted him, but I’d already taken them.”

“What?” John asked faintly.

“The sleeping pills Ella prescribed that you never took.” Sherlock admitted. John nodded, processing this new information then stood up slowly. Sherlock matched him, and they stood opposite each other.

“I don’t know if I can bear that kind of responsibility, Sherlock.” John said quietly. “I don’t want to move back in here because you’re ransoming your health to keep me here.” Sherlock nodded automatically, stopping his brain from processing for the moment.

John sighed. “I’m going to stay at Greg’s for the time being. Come out for drinks the next few times Greg asks, and we’ll see how we go.” He stepped closer, hesitantly placing one hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

“I still care for you, Sherlock.” He said quietly, eyes searching in that familiar way. “But I need to see that you care for me, too.” Sherlock nodded jerkily, then watched as John walked out of their flat. Within seconds, Mycroft was climbing the stairs, and Sherlock was facing the back of the couch again, wrapped in the wings of the bird of despair.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock see if they can make it work.

 “I can’t promise not to be upset if you leave again, John…

“What exactly would you have me do to prove myself?

“I value you above all others, John, and I will make my best effort to…

“All I can do is ask you to believe that I will…

“This is who I am, John, and you knew that before we…

 

Sherlock had run through dozens of possible ways to speak to John about this situation that had arisen between them. John had agreed to meet him at Baker Street again, a week after their last meeting, and Mycroft would also be present, at John’s request. Sherlock wondered if John was genuinely fearful for his safety, and the idea settled uncomfortably in his stomach. The dark bird, still perched in the space inside him, latched onto the fear, engulfing and expanding it. Sherlock shook himself, pressing down on the bird until it cowered meekly beneath the pressure of his determination.

+++

“Hello John.” Sherlock said. He remained seated, indicating John should take his seat opposite. Mycroft occupied the desk chair, facing the fireplace, though further away; Sherlock wanted a conversation with John, not with his brother, and Mycroft had a complete inability to keep his long nose out of other people’s business. When John sat, Sherlock waited for him to speak. He felt oddly calm and patient, knowing that it was very likely that John had made up his mind already, no matter what Sherlock said. Nothing to be done but wait for the proverbial axe to fall.

“How have you been?” John asked nervously.

“Fine.” Sherlock replied. “And you?”

“Not too bad. Greg’s spare room isn’t terrible.” John offered, cracking a slight smile. When Sherlock didn’t move, he asked, “Any cases?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’d rather not talk about that, actually.” He said.

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock did not raise his voice, or speak rudely; he was the epitome of politeness. His face was blank as he waited for John to reply.

“Okay.” John said. “Er, is there anything you wanted to say?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I suspect you’ve already made up your mind.”

His calmness and patience was odd, and John found himself fiddling with the button at the bottom of his shirt, as he now spoke. “Mycroft made a good point when we spoke this week.” He started, and both men glanced involuntarily at Mycroft, who remained impassive. “He said that you had hardly ransomed your health to me – you didn’t even tell me what had happened until I asked. And you never threatened to harm yourself if I left.” Sherlock nodded, surprised Mycroft had bothered to speak to John in his defence. He tuned back into John’s voice. “I want to be around you, Sherlock. When it’s us here, it’s more comfortable and more like home than I’ve ever known. But I can’t just move back in. I need to see that the Sherlock that’s here” he indicated the flat, “can be out there, too.” John looked at Sherlock, a cross between pleading and earnestness. “Do you think that’s possible?”

Sherlock considered the question seriously. “When it’s you and I, John, I know what to expect. I can predict your responses and behave accordingly. I know your routines and mannerisms. Out there,” his hand indicated the street, “People don’t listen to me the same way. They get impatient with me and it makes me…uncomfortable.” John nodded, listening. Sherlock went on, “People are unpredictable in their behaviours and responses. I admit, I regress to my base defensive tactic, deduction, in order to regain a level of control over the situation.” Sherlock paused. “It takes considerable time and brain power to think through the likely outcomes of my actions, and in that time people tend to act. I have learned to speak first in order to prevent further loss of control.” The introspection required for him to realise these things had been long and painful, but necessary. “The only thing I can offer is to demonstrate my willingness to try, John. I will make a considerable effort to control my speech. You, however, need to make a decision about whether you are willing to take that offer and leave the past in the past.” Sherlock took a deep breath. “You issued an ultimatum when you were here last. My only request is this: if you are not able to move on, if you think you will refer to the past instances again and again, then chose to leave. Whatever my failings, I do not wish to pay penance on them forever.” Sherlock’s heart was beating fast as he made this statement. He did feel that it was a risk, but in looking at himself hard, he knew that there would always be that fear in him, that John would bring up his past indiscretions in a week, a year – that he would live in the shadow of that time forever. Difficult as it would seem, he would rather delete John and move on with his doubtless empty life, with only the dark bird to fill the space inside him, than live with John and his shame ever entwined.

John nodded slowly. “That’s fair, Sherlock. I meant to say that I thought we could take it slowly, a few nights out to test the waters at first.” He shifted uncomfortably before adding, “I’ll stay with Greg a little longer, just while we see how things go.”

Sherlock agreed that this made sense. He was looking at this whole experience of being out on a regular basis with trepidation, and the relief of coming home and being able to switch off would be important. It was still odd, being here without John, but Sherlock could feel the other man’s tension from here, and he knew the anxiety both felt would make things awkward in the extreme if John was to live here right now. “Certainly.” He replied belatedly to John’s comment.

“Okay. Well we’re meeting at the pub this Friday if you want to join us?” John said, standing to leave. “Look, nobody except Greg knows we’ve been, um, that anything has been different, so you don’t have to worry about anything being said about that.” Sherlock appreciated John’s attempt to allay his fears. He smiled weakly in acknowledgement. John looked awkward for a minute before nodding stiffly to Sherlock, then to Mycroft, and striding out the door as though dismissed from parade.

Sherlock turned to his brother, whom he had forgotten was even in the room until John acknowledged him.

“Shut the door on your way out, would you?” he said before Mycroft could speak.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, then uncharacteristically did what he was asked without a snide comment. Sherlock retreated into his mind palace. He needed to fine tune this plan of his for dealing with the imbeciles at the bar. His relationship with John depended on it.

+++

Sherlock had arrived at the bar exactly on time, nerves crowding the big bird inside him until he was barely aware of its existence. He saw Lestrade and John and others from NSY; Lestrade raised his drink in greeting, and Sherlock raised his hand. He bought a drink at the bar before moving to join them. John greeted him, a façade of relaxed cheer covering his anxiety, Sherlock could see. It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to join the group but refrain from conversation, and for this he was grateful, as it allowed him to take his seat without having to engage in small talk. He watched John, mainly, as well as updating his mental notes on Lestrade. He wasn’t sure if John expected him to be different tonight, but he was determined to change nothing except his reactions. John had insisted he did not want Sherlock to change, and he took John by his word – he was nothing if not honest. Sherlock wanted that too – it had been almost inconceivable that John, the incredible and admirable soldier and doctor, was interested in him as he was. The idea that John was only interested in a version of him that did not exist was too difficult to comprehend, and Sherlock refused to entertain the idea that if he was better/faster/funnier John would like him better. He could accept that his actions had had a detrimental effect on John; in his analysis of his own actions that had been admittedly true. It was reasonable that John would not wish to repeat those scenarios, and Sherlock could certainly change the way he dealt with that without changing his fundamental being.

In fact, John had made it clear that he liked Sherlock best when he was at his most authentic, at Baker Street, just the two of them. Sherlock never had to pretend with John; he could tell John when he didn’t understand, or wasn’t interested in something, and John would accept that, or patiently explain why something was the way it was. John was not offended when Sherlock ignored social norms or cues. Not everyone was like that, and Sherlock knew John could not comprehend that it was in fact John himself that brought out that honesty in Sherlock which had seemed to make him so endearing. Other people simply didn’t have the indefinable characteristics of John Hamish Watson.

Forcing himself mentally back to the pub, Sherlock looked at the group. They were the usual bunch, a few detectives, support staff, one or two from St. Bart’s that regularly saw the detectives in their work. Most simply ignored Sherlock, having been burned before; only Molly, standing on the other side of the group, had smiled at Sherlock. As his gaze moved, Sherlock caught John’s eye. The doctor was looking at him, Sherlock realised, not talking to anyone, or listening to a conversation, but watching him. Sherlock returned his look calmly. After a moment, John gave a hesitant smile, which Sherlock acknowledged by raising his glass. John seemed satisfied by this small moment, and turned to check the football scores.

A few hours later, the volume in the bar had skyrocketed, and Sherlock’s nerves were starting to become raw with tension. He didn’t feel like he could leave until he had demonstrated his new plan to John, and yet nobody was doing anything that would draw his attention. He had only consumed the one drink on his arrival, and now it was coming back to him. Sherlock excused himself to the men’s room, relieving himself then turning towards the mirror. Without warning, a large form picked him up and shoved him against the wall, his head banging on the tiles. He frowned at the scowl on the man’s face.

“Can I help you?” he asked mildly, taking a deep breath and diving into his plan to remain calm.

The man growled at him, before saying, “I’d suggest you leave, mate, before a terrible accident happens.”

Sherlock blinked. Had they met before? He scanned his memory, seeing the same man at the last pub, throwing him and John out into that alleyway.

“Oh,” he said, and then, “Very well.” Sherlock stood patiently, still pressed up against the wall, waiting for the man to release him. As soon as he did, Sherlock straightening his jacket and left the men’s room, the ominous figure right behind him. He made his way across the bar to Lestrade and John.

“I have to go.” Sherlock said, interrupting their conversation.

John looked surprised.

“I’ve been asked to leave by someone who has taken offense to my earlier appearances.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Lestrade frowned, looking at the large figure standing not too far away. He stood and waved at the man who, to Sherlock’s astonishment, turned without a word and left the bar, the door slamming against the wall. Mouth slightly open, Sherlock turned to Lestrade for an explanation.

“He knows me in a professional capacity.” Greg’s voice was full of satisfaction. “He’s not meant to be in any establishment serving alcohol as part of his community release agreement, apart from his working hours.”

Sherlock digested this, then nodded his thanks.

“So you’ll stay?” John asked, and after a short hesitation, Sherlock nodded and resumed his seat.

+++

Several times in the next few weeks, Sherlock joined the group at the pub. He waited patiently, largely tuning out the conversations around him, focussing on John to while away the time. He missed having John around Baker Street. The evenings after the pub nights had been lonelier than he had thought they would be – it would have been nice to have another person pottering around, at least. Sherlock was realising that he had taken John for granted. He had assumed that their status quo would not change, that John was impervious to him. They rarely spoke at the pub; John was usually in the middle of the conversation while Sherlock sat quietly in the corner. There was a silent greeting, a few shared glances, and twice a short conversation with Lestrade and John about the logistics of a murder, but otherwise, nothing. John was not coming to crime scenes, and they did not communicate otherwise. Sherlock felt strangely calm about the whole experience. He wanted John back in his life, but for the first time he had realised that he did need to consider John as more than convenient. At the same time, it had been empowering to be able to verbalise his needs and have them validated by John. Their relationship had changed dramatically this time and Sherlock was seeing that it might actually benefit them in the long term. Sherlock understood it, now, and he needed to see the value for each of them before he could embrace the change, and feel significant enough to define parts of it to his own specifications.

+++

“Sherlock?” John’s voice cut into Sherlock’s mind palace. He quickly closed the door, exiting so he could focus on John.

“Good evening, John.” They were standing in the crowded bar at the edge of their group. It was getting late, but the Friday night crowd was just getting started, it seemed.

“How have you been?” John asked. “Greg tells me you’ve had some interesting cases.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Two sixes and a seven. Nothing spectacular.” He answered, though he itched to tell John about the details.

“Perhaps I could come to Bak-” John was cut off as a man pushed behind him, jolting him forward and spilling his beer.

“Yeah, thanks mate.” John muttered. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was looking murderous. The look drained from his face after a moment, and Sherlock reached over to collect some paper serviettes for John to clean up the worst of it. John took them, looking thoughtfully at Sherlock.

“What happened there?” He asked.

“I put that man in the dungeon of my mind palace.” Sherlock confessed, his face flushing. He would never have admitted the truth to anyone except John. Only John would hear without judging. He could see the doctor noting the flush he felt on his face, and he waited for John’s response.

“In chains, I hope.” John replied, smiling a genuine smile at Sherlock.

“Of course.” Sherlock answered, relief untwisting his insides.

“I was saying,” John went on, “perhaps I could come to Baker Street and you could tell me about the cases you’ve had.”

Sherlock nodded. “That would be…good.” He managed.

John turned back to the group, and Sherlock let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding. He made his way to the door without saying goodbye, wanting to process this change to their fragile balancing act. It appeared, as he walked home, that John was prepared to make an overture towards the rebuilding of some kind of relationship. It was a small step, but Sherlock felt positive about it. They each needed to tread carefully and slowly, mindful of the other. With any luck, thought Sherlock with unusual sentiment, he and John would be stronger, whatever their relationship looked like in the future. Sherlock did not notice the cold dark bird inside him wrap its wings around itself and begin to fade away, the intense spark of hope searing it into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I suspect this is the last chapter of this story. I feel like it's reached a conclusion, despite the lack of definitive 'will it work or not?'. I really wanted to explore what would happen if John actually expected Sherlock to consider his needs as a partner, and I think they've gotten to that place.
> 
> Thanks to those who've read and commented, I appreciate it! <3


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